Zachor - Alumni Reactions
8/8/2002 To Ben and Marla, Ripped From Youth by a Bomb in Jerusalem
Alex Lazarus Special to the Jewish Exponent (Pardes '01-'02)
The coffin seemed too small, the day too quiet. All of us gathered
under a green awning on the sloped hills of Kesher Israel's cemetery
in Harrisburg. On a cloud-covered August afternoon, several American
flags waved slowly from other graves, their tops covered with tiny
brown stones.
Six men carried the coffin of Benjamin Blutstein, a 25-year-old
American killed, July 31, in a suicide bombing at Hebrew University.
We watched as they lowered my friend's body slowly into the ground.
For what seemed like hours, people shoveled, three at a time, until
no dirt remained beside the grave. Then, after the cantor chanted
from the book of Psalms, the family, quiet and slightly hoarse,
said the words to the Mourner's Kaddish for the first time. Ben
would never have stood for so much quiet. I could see him above
us, legs folded Indian-style, his big body swaying back and forth
as he often did in class, tapping. Ben could create rhythm out of
anything. That was his talent.
During services in Jerusalem, he would use the windowsill or his
legs to maintain a beat. He could transform a Shabbat service into
a combination of hip-hop and funk, the type of music he was known
for in the small bars of downtown Jerusalem. "DJ Ultrasound"
- that was the name on the cards he used to invite people to his
gigs. He would stand, already balding at 25, earphones covering
several piercings, hands on both record players, smiling to himself
as he made music.
When I first met Ben he was a student at Pardes Institute for Jewish
Studies, a tiny yeshiva in Talpiot, Israel. He was the one with
the big kipah and oversized pants, tzitzit hanging over the sides.
He was the one who never came less then 15 minutes late in the morning,
the one who would sneak in with a baby-faced grin, knowing we could
never really be mad at him, no matter when he showed up.
He would argue ferociously with teachers. Standing at a shtender
("podium"), the only one of us not seated around the room,
he would sway as he talked. He liked to be different - not only
in how he dressed and looked, but also in how he thought. Many times
he would look at the words of the Torah and find something even
the ancient commentators
hadn't thought of.
There was a softer side to Ben, the kind that welcomed newcomers
to the yeshiva, that invited them to Shabbat meals, and that asked
how you were
doing if you seemed down. He wanted to create an environment where
people loved and respected one another. He wanted to change the
world. When I had heard he had been ac-cepted in the Pardes'' Educators
Program, a joint initiative with Hebrew University that trains teachers
to come back to America and work in Jewish day schools, I was happy
for
him. Here this class clown, this "bad boy" at our tiny
school, was going to do something wonderful with his life. He had
found his calling. Joining him in that program was Marla Bennet,
24, who always helped me make the morning minyan. She would be one
of the first students there, greeting everyone with her short black
hair and friendly smile.
I had known them both. We were classmates, three years ago, at Pardes.
I can imagine them emerging from their classrooms on that Wednesday
afternoon, tired, perhaps a bit groggy in the humid Jerusalem weather.
At 1 or 2 o'clock, it was now nearing the hottest point in the day,
the time when many things are already shutting down for a mini-siesta.
Ben, Marla and fellow student Jamie Harris-Gershom must have met
for lunch at the Frank Sinatra Cafe. They must have been laughing.
I can imagine Ben, the life of a party, joking with them.
I can almost see Marla and Jamie, carrying smiles as wide and bright
as their young faces. And I could picture the cafe itself, as I
had attended Hebrew University as a junior in college. Barely 20,
I would meet my friends there. We all loved the food. For 10 shekels,
you could order a main course of schnitzel or stir-fry and two side
dishes, like carrots and rice. My friends and I would sit at the
long, cafeteria-style tables and eat off trays of green and orange.
On nice days we would sit outside on the white stones of the campus,
enjoying the buzz of students heading to classes.
All these memories flooded back to me as I read about the suicide
bombing on the Internet. I wondered what the room look-ed like now,
covered in ash and nails, tables twisted and pushed against the
stone and broken glass. I was already in shock, even before I knew
the real news: That among the seven casualties, five were Americans,
and two of the five were my friends.
An Israeli on the news last week de-scribed the process of learning
about a suicide bomb like this: First, you recognize a place where
you've spent time. Next, you think of the people you know, casual
acquaintances who were there at the wrong time. Then, as the news
re-ports filter in, you realize that it was more than that Ñ
that among the casualties was your best friend.
Ben was the first to be confirmed dead. Marla was missing, her body
not yet identified. And Jamie was rushed by Magen David Adom to
a nearby hospital, shrapnel caught in her small frame.
I think of Ben first. He was the one who grew up in Harrisburg,
where much of my family is from. Then my thoughts move to Marla
and Jamie. Marla, I learned later that day, also died in the attack.
Jamie is recovering.
None of my friends were political. Like me, they were there to study,
to be with people they liked, to be in an environment that encouraged
them to be themselves. With so much promise, all of them were going
to make a difference in the Jewish world.
Now, Ben and Marla are gone, their lives cut short by one bomber's
attempt to make a political statement.
Ben had been expected to come back to Harrisburg last week for a
visit. Instead, on Aug. 2, the day he was supposed to come home,
on a day his little sister, Rivke, barely 14, would walk with him
to Shabbat services, on a day the Harrisburg Jewish community would
welcome him back, we had come together for a different reason.
We wept openly, knowing the irony of the situation was too great.
How could a bomb create such utter and complete silence? Not only
had the loud explosion at Hebrew University occurred in a cafeteria
named after one of the greatest singers of all time, but it had
blotted out the lives of Ben Blutstein and six others. Ben, who
was never silent, now
lay buried in the ground with only the slow roll of thunder in the
background to keep the beat.
I left the funeral shaking my head. How could a small, pine tar
box contain a man with such a big soul?
God bless you, Ben and Marla.
God bless and protect you, Jamie.
God bless and pray for peace in Jerusalem.
By Sam Shapiro
Pardes 2000-2001
My cousin Shaanan, who runs a bar in Jerusalem called Diwan where Ben spun a lot and is also the lead singer for Hadag Nahas, a rap group whose songs get regular play on Gal Galetz, was in New York last week for his grandfather's funeral. I had not been able to talk to him until then, because I assumed his family's difficult times were consuming most of his energy. But when I saw him, basically the first thing he wanted to talk about was Ben. The look on his face and the way he talked about it gave me a real sense for how the loss is being experienced by Ben's Israeli community. I thought I would send you some of what he said because I thought it was really lovely and other people might want to know. I already sent it to Ben's parents.
Shaanan said when the band found out about Ben, during a concert, they stopped playing and said "We lost someone very important. Someone important to us [the band Hadag Nahas] and to Yerushalayim and the whole scene." Then Shaanan told some stories about Ben and then the band only played sort of low-key songs the rest of the night. That night the Gal Galetz hip-hop show, Osek Shahor, dedicated their 2-hour show to Ben and they also stopped halfway through and told some stories about him and had a moment of silence (hard to come by in a hip-hop show). The next day, which was Friday, there was a huge hip-hop festival in Tel Aviv and Shaanan said everyone on that scene was there---at least 600 people. Shaanan said he started out by saying "DJ Benny B wouldn't have come to this show because it's on Friday, but he would have loved it and now we are sure he's watching it from shamayim. Then his band arranged this jam where all they did was chant "cavod, cavod, cavod," for a couple of minutes and then different people told stories about Ben. Shaanan said Purple 59, a rapper who I think generally has a bit of a foul mouth, told a story about seeing a lulav and etrog on top of Ben's records and being agitated about the idea that Ben was "daati." He said "I kept saying 'what is this? This can't work, it makes no sense!' He made me realize how stereotyped I am." Purple 59 also said "I hope they wrote on his headstone "I don't spin on Shabbes."
I think the idea that a bunch of too-cool-for-school rappers talked (literally with cavod!) about Ben keeping Shabbes and having a lulav and etrog is really beautiful. I think it is a sanctification of his name that is very much in his spirit
From David Harris-Gershon
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To everyone,
Every night, usually very late, when it is time for me
to make my way home from the hospital and attempt a
night's rest, Jamie looks into my eyes with tears and
thanks me for being there for her. For having the
patience and strength to help her through this
exceptionally difficult time.
When she thanks me just before I leave, she is really
thanking all of you. For my strength and ability to
deal with everything that has been thrown at me during
this ordeal has come from you, from this amazing
Pardes community. From meals to rides, emotional
comforting to logistical support, visits to emails,
all of you have been a steady stream providing me
nurishment and comfort. If not for you, Jamie would
not be improving as she is, and we thank you from the
depths.
Jamie's condition is as follows:
Physically- Jamie, after having undergone surgery to
repair an intestine that was pierced by a metal bolt,
has made a full recovery from the surgery and is now
beginning to eat solid foods. She is still being
treated for second degree burns on her arms, legs and
back, and will be transfered to Hadasah Ein Kerem
tomorrow to begin recovery in the burn unit. This may
take some time, but she is going to make a full
recovery. She is an incredibly brave woman, and has
endured physical pain with a quiet determination that
I can't comprehend.
Emotionally- Jamie learned yesterday about the fate of
our cherished friends Ben and Marla, and has taken the
news as one would expect. She still does not have the
strength to begin to fully mourn our loss, and will
need all of your help in the coming weeks to process
this tragedy.
People have asked me if I feel lucky or fortunate. I
don't. What I do feel is an unspeakable pain that I
will never see Marla and Ben again and an unspeakable
love for my wife. It is hard to get along with these
crazy emotions pulling each way, and the Pardes
community has stablized me and centered me. Thank you.
I'm sure that I have left much unsaid, but I must go
rest. Jamie needs me tomorrow.
David Harris-Gershon
By SAMANTHA M. SHAPIRO
FORWARD CORRESPONDENT
I lost two friends in the Hebrew University bombing last Wednesday.
You lost them too; they were studying to be day-school teachers, and they would have been amazing — warm, passionate, intellectually charged. I don't blame you for not mourning them or for not remembering their names, Marla Bennett, 24, and Ben Blutstein, 25. Two people were murdered in terrorist attacks the day before, nine were murdered the day after, then two, then 14.
We are getting used to the images of a mangled restaurant, bus or street corner; the blood-spattered flesh, the chaotic spray of shoes and bookbags, the neon yellow of the volunteers' vests. We hold our breath during the body count and feel very sorry, but what can we do? It is not possible to remember and mourn even a fraction of the 605 victims. The media knows this. It's hard to imagine that a terrorist attack that killed five Americans anywhere but Israel would be off the TV screen by Friday, but how many times can the same story be reported?
The story of the deaths — innocent young people senselessly killed — are all the same, but the story of each life is unique, containing its own irreplaceable particular magic. My friends wanted to teach. If we take time to remember their lives and learn from them, we can give them a chance to do that.
I met them in 2001, my second year at the Pardes Institute of Jewish Studies in Jerusalem, which was their first. They both came soon after college — Ben had worked for a year as a drug rehab counselor. They loved Judaism and wanted to know it more deeply and seriously. By the end of their first year, they had both committed to three years of teacher training and three more in American day schools. That's where the similarities end.
Marla took color-coded notes, coordinated the women's prayer group and the egalitarian minyan and was always the first to arrive. She had all of the enthusiasm of the former cheerleader she was and none of the pretensions or vapidness. She made everyone feel special and included and was wont to announce to people in the hallway that they looked "gorgeous!" In a story she wrote in her hometown newspaper, the San Diego Jewish Press-Heritage, about why she stayed in Israel, she said she felt that she could help heal the "brokenness" in small ways, such as visiting people in the hospital or sending food baskets to Palestinians. Her calm, happy presence improved every situation. When she moved to a neighborhood near mine, I looked forward to sharing with her the long walk home after Shabbat. On hushed hilly streets, we talked about how being in Israel made us happy in a way we couldn't name, how we loved daily things like going to the supermarket and decoding the nine million different kids of soft cheese. We talked about how hard it was to style curly hair and about our parents. When she laughed her nose crinkled up.
Ben was semi-famous around Jerusalem, because he was a DJ and because he always wore a yarmulke and tzitzit when he spun. Unlike most of us, he hung out with Israeli-Arabs, playing at their clubs, opening for their bands. A hipster Israeli magazine once did a cover story about him, asking how he reconciled the apparent contradiction of studying Talmud during the day and spinning in Tel Aviv clubs at night. He said "music and Torah are both ways to approach the infinite." He was a brilliant drummer, able to move from one complicated beat to another without breaking the flow. He did the same thing in life. He would announce his gigs in the study hall, ignoring the teeth-gritting of our rabbis. At clubs, he would tell people that he didn't eat unkosher food or drink beer.
Everywhere he went, he brought music — drumming on tables, tapping his feet to beats in his head. He played at friends' weddings and living rooms and always wanted to sing the entire bentsher at Shabbat dinner. He was hilarious, heading up the Pardes house band, "women, slaves, and minors," whose name was taken from a Mishnaic category that vexed many of us. Ben cared about everything. Minor injustices or inconsistencies tripped him up and he was willing to argue a point in the Talmud for hours. Little kids loved him and teenagers worshipped his baggy pants and earrings. Ben had had a rocky adolescence in Harrisburg, Pa., — his mom said in high school the only award he got was a handwritten one from his friends naming him "most popular Black chick." He said he wanted to be a teacher partly because he could reach the "bad kids." He knew all their tricks.
Of course, it's ridiculous to eulogize people in their 20s. They were in process; Marla was in love, Ben was reading up on Islam, had gotten rid of his tongue ring, was getting in shape.
In the days after they died, I slept with the lights on. I didn't cry, not even when I saw a man on the subway open the Daily News to a full-page shot of the bodies, and I recognized one, partly covered with a body bag.
Every time I thought about what they would have become and the kids they would have touched, I felt incredible numbness, punctured occasionally by hatred.
I hated seeing my friends on the front page of The New York Times waving goodbye to Ben's coffin at Ben-Gurion Airport. I hated seeing so many friends at Ben's funeral at Kesher Israel Synagogue and thinking it was the kind of reunion we would have had for his wedding.
I hated glimpsing his parents and thinking of my mother's hysterical, understandable phone calls when I was in Israel. I hated seeing Pardes's hulking, intimidating, beloved rosh yeshiva, Rabbi Daniel Landes, at the funeral with his head in his hands, red-faced. I even hated the firemen from Ben's town, standing at attention as the funeral procession went by. I hated the Palestinians, and felt no grief for their innocent victims, in spite of the fact that I knew well enough that grief turned to anger fuels this violence.
I did not feel anything but numb hatred until Shabbat afternoon, the day after Ben's funeral. On incredibly short notice, the Blutstein's Harrisburg community had put up all of Ben's friends in air-conditioned rooms, fed us meals and left us alone to be with each other. Sitting in one of their living rooms, a friend suggested we sing one of Ben's many favorite songs, "Hamalach Hagoel." The sweet, quiet melody caught me off guard. I thought of what the words — "The angel that redeems me from all evil, will bless the children" — might have meant to Ben. And, suddenly, I remembered Ben — not the pictures in the newspaper or the grief soaking his town. I remembered that he was lovely in all the ways his death was not.
Sitting in the room with my rabbi and friends, I felt the sweetness of Torah, community and nation that drew us all to Israel.
I realized that the narrowing of my sympathy, the hard shell I erected, not unlike the wall Israel is building around itself now, had nothing to do with the way Marla and Ben lived. They were deeply committed to making Jewish life and life in general more inclusive, expansive and fun. They were growing, changing and full of love. We can't just remember the meaninglessness and repulsiveness of their death. We have to, as they wanted, learn something from the love and openness in their lives.
A scholarship fund has been established in Ben's and Marla's name (American Pardes Foundation, 136 E. 39th Street, New York, N.Y., 10016).
Letter from Debbie Jacobson, Pardes Educator 2001-03
I wanted to let people know a bit about what has been going on
with me in
the States after finding out about the bomb at Hebrew U last Wednesday.
Finding out about what happened was shocking and unbelievable. I
felt
frantic and full of panic and disbelief. Although I was lucky to
be with
Leah and Ronit from Pardes at Genesis in Boston, I still felt isolated
and
that it was all happening very far away. It just didn't seem real
at all. I
desperately wanted to communicate with other people from Pardes,
to speak
to people, to try and comprehend together what had happened. I spoke
to
David Harris Gershon who was shockingly calm and reassuring. Nothing
seemed
real.
I couldn't make it to Ben's funeral because it was my last day of
teaching
at Genesis and I had to be there at least for some of the morning
class, so
I left Boston at 11.30 and got a train to Harrisburg (Ben's home
town) for
Shabbat.
The Harrisburg Jewish community were unbelievable. They organized
home
hospitality for all visitors staying for Shabbat, they organized
Shabbat
meals for all of us in the shul and a seudah shlishit at someone's
house
for us.
About 10 Pardes people and Rav Landes stayed for Shabbat. Everybody
was
very shocked and upset and was trying to take in the reality of
Ben's
death. Rav Landes was amazing, he really was a pillar to the group,
bringing us all together to talk about what had happened. He told
us his
experience in Jerusalem of the aftermath of the bombing hearing
that
Jamie had been injured, going to Hadassah Har Hatsofim to check
on her,
then trying to track down the missing people. He told us about Wednesday
in
Pardes, as the truth of what happened unfolded. We asked questions,
he
helped us to understand details of what had happened, helped clear
up some
of the terrible confusion and disbelief. Sharing our questions in
the small
circle gave us a sense of the support of our small community there
in
Harrisburg, and of all the other members of the wider Pardes community,
who
were also there with us. We sang a niggun together which also helped
us
feel each other's support.
On Shabbat we all went to visit Ben's family. This was very positive
for
everybody. We shared stories about Ben with his family, the afternoon
was a
mixture of laughter and tears, remembering many funny stories about
Ben.
His family invited us joyfully to share all the parts of Ben that
they
hadn't known, they wanted to find out new things and were happy
when they
did - such as Ben having a tongue ring! The family really appreciated
us
being there. I think it was also a powerful experience for all of
us, it
brought Ben back to life in a way and made me aware all at once
of all the
wonderful and varied sides of him. I left Ben's family feeling that
I
wanted to try and help Ben live on in one way in my life by trying
to
emulate some of his wonderful qualities that we had talked about
with his
family his openness, his warmth and generosity to others, his patience
in
teaching and in chevruta, his kindness, his welcoming in of new
people into
the community.
Rav Landes continued to be a strong pillar for all of us, bringing
us
together again to talk about how we felt about the meeting with
Ben's
family. We then also started sharing our memories of Marla.
At seudah shlishit, members of the Harrisburg Jewish community told
us how
much they appreciated us being there, davening with them in shul,
singing
at the Shabbat meals and being with Ben's family. I think the whole
community was in shock about Ben's death and they drew strength
from our
presence as a strong community. The Harrisburg community who had
already
showed remarkable generosity, offered to help pay for the airfares
of those
people who wanted to go to Marla's funeral but couldn't for financial
reasons. They said, after having seen as a Pardes community in Harrisburg,
that it would simply be wrong for us to not similarly be in San
Diego with
Marla's friends and family.
Sunday was Andy [Katz, Educator 2001-03] and Emily's wedding. Somehow
everyone there managed to allow the joy of the wedding to emerge
through
the intense sadness of the previous few days. Rav Landes was the
officiator, I don't know how he managed to be so strong and to be
so fully
present with Andy and Emiliy in their simcha after having been so
present
with Ben's family in Harrisburg the day before. The wedding was
beautiful,the dancing was energetic and joyous, but both Andy at
the tisch,
Emily under the chuppah, and Emily's father at the dinner, spoke
in some
way about the tragedy that had just happened.
Elaine and I and Rav Landes left the wedding early to fly to San
Diego for
Marla's funeral. I felt a lot of support from the other people at
the
wedding, that I was bringing their love with me to San Diego to
Marla's
friends and family.
Monday was Marla's funeral. It was amazing to see so many friends
from
Pardes who had all managed to be there to mourn together and to
support
each other. There were vast amounts of people at the funeral, the
service
was impressive and official.
Michael spoke it was very moving.
After the funeral everyone moved to a different shul to comfort
the
mourners. Rav Landes brought all Pardes people to the library and
to daven
together and learnt some Torah, then he arranged for us all to go
to the
house of a Pardes board member nearby where we ate and began to
process
everything together.
We talked about what had happened, about the bomb, about the search
for Ben
and Marla, about the process of identifying their bodies, about
Jamie's
condition, about David coping so well. We talked about what we had
learnt
over the last few days and what had been comforting.
Many of us felt incredibly comforted by the remarkable sense of
community,
of so many people from Pardes coming together and supporting each
other and
bringing the support of other friends from Pardes who couldn't make
it to
the funeral, but were on the other end of the phone or were emailing
their
support.
I also felt comforted by Marla's mother when I spoke to her after
the
funeral and told her that I was on the educator's program with Marla,
she
said, 'Go back to Israel next year, don't even think about not going
back,
Marla would have wanted you to go back. It would be a waste of Marla's
life
and everything she stood for if you don't go back'. That was unbelievable
to hear, and she said it with so much warmth and with a smile, remembering
Marla's positive energy, optimism and determination to be in Israel.
We then sat and shared memories of Marla and memories of Ben. This
was
cathartic and brought laughter and smiles to all of us.
We talked about how we can remember Ben and Marla and establish
positive
memorials for them: Hyim is organizing a website: www.marlaann.com
(I
think), for people to write in with memories of Marla. Of course
we should
also write directly to her family. We talked about doing rainbow
Shabbats
and about doing educational/ artistic projects possibly with Arab
and
Israeli children to remember Marla's love for Israel, for peace,
for color
and for education. Maybe we could do music projects with Araba and
Israeli
kids to remember Ben's love for education, for openness and tolerance
and
for music. We should all pool our ideas for these memorial projects
and
start organizing them when the Pardes year starts.
After leaving our group last night, I felt a little bit lighter
than I had
for the first time since finding out about the bomb last Wednesday.
I felt
comforted by the support of the community, by the optimism and hope
that
community creates, by the love of everyone in that room and all
the
extended Pardes community who are all thinking about Ben and Marla
and who
care about Jamie in hospital, and who care about and want to help
those who
are hurting the most, especially Michael Simon and Amanda and Rebecca
Spilke and David Harris Gershon. I also felt comforted knowing that
our
community has leaders like Rav Landes who care so much about their
students
and give the community such incredible love and support.
Let's try and be in touch with each other as much as possible through
email
and try and keep the sense of this amazingly supportive community
alive,
since it is one thing that can give us hope in the midst of such
terrible
tragedy.
Debbie Jacobson
Our cousin Marla came into our lives only two years ago when she arrived in Israel to study at Pardes. But as soon as we found each other, she became a close part of our family in Jerusalem. We both had very little family here, and so finding each other was that much more important. Marla spent countless Shabbatot with us, many chagim, time at shul, and as Michael came into her life, the two were together with us as well. It seems that whenever someone leaves us in such a sudden and harsh way,everyone says how special and unique that person was. In Marla's case, this was really true. She was an amazing person and her loss is a devastating loss to the entire Jewish people. She was always up, always full of energy. Her smile could melt any sadness. She was smart, tolerant, committed to tradition, and embodied the very things the Jewish world and the world as a whole need more of. As a teacher, she would have inspired so many Jewish children towards those values. Her commitment to tzedakah and helping people were not just words, but really were an integral part of who she was. Marla had a particularly strong connection with our children who loved her deeply. When the parents needed to nap on Shabbat, it was Marla who would hang out all afternoon and play games with them. She made a special effort to come to our daughter's violin concert; I think the first time she had been in an Israeli elementary school. I remember her sitting with us, the proud parents, just as proud of her 8-year-old cousin. Telling our children about her death was one of the hardest things we've had to do. When we went on vacation this summer, we gave Marla the keys to our apartment and car. She was so excited to have a car to use for the month… or maybe it was the access to cable TV for a while! I came back after four weeks from my part of the vacation; Jody and the kids were to stay on in San Diego for another 3 weeks. Marla was flying to see them the very day she was murdered. Before I left, we joked that she and I would cross in the air - as I would be landing literally as she was taking off. Marla's last email to Jody was - see you on Friday in San Diego. Now they will meet again on Monday under entirely different and tragic circumstances. I have so many wonderful memories of Marla - we would see her almost every Friday when I took the kids to Pizza Sababa - sometimes she would sit and join us, sometimes she would just stop for a minute. Just before we left for vacation, Marla showed us her new apartment; she was so excited. And she had us over for Shabbat lunch where we met her parents. Now Jody has been spending every day with them in San Diego. Marla's loss is the first for our family. Beyond that, a tragedy such as this puts into perspective our relationship as individuals vs. the national history of the Jewish people. Too often, in the face of difficult times such as those we are experiencing now in Israel, we tend to bury our heads,hoping it will pass over us and our immediate family will get through this on the way to “better” times. But when someone in your family is targeted because she is a Jew, you instantly are thrust into part of the collective Jewish narrative. Your story of tragedy - and also in entirely different circumstances a story of joy or success - becomes part and parcel of the Jewish totality. You can no longer see yourself as just individuals. In this way Marla is not alone, none of us are alone. Our struggle is collective. Indeed, Marla wrote these very words in May in a column she contributed to a San Diego newspaper that has now been widely circulated online. I'll repeat the critical lines here: “My friends and family in San Diego are right when they call and ask me to come home - it is dangerous here," she wrote. "I appreciate their concern. But there is nowhere else in the world I would rather be right now. I have a front-row seat for the history of the Jewish people. I am a part of the struggle for Israel's survival." Marla had her eyes wide open. She knew why she was here. Maybe that's why, after such news, my reaction is not that of seeking to flee, to run away to a place perceived to be somehow “safer,” but rather, my conviction to continue in Israel's struggle is strengthened even further. I have tried to find words of comfort for my children. My message to them over the phone before Shabbat was that the best way to preserve Marla's memory is to use who she was and what made her special to either change yourselves or change the world. To make yourself a better person - more like Marla - or to help make the world a safer, more giving, more loving place. As they were falling asleep, they didn't understand exactly what that meant, but I think in time they will. I know that Marla will never be forgotten and that we will cherish our times with her through the actions we take in the future. We miss her so much and she will always be in our thoughts.
- Brian Blum
Pardes '85-86
Ben, my roommate
Thu, 01 Aug 2002 14:05:40 -0400
In America we talk about making Aliya and living the Zionist dream. We talk about what life is like in Israel and what we can do to improve the situation here. We know the dangers of living in Israel, we know the horrible situations that occur day in and day out, and we know that they are an unfortunate reality to pursuing 'the dream.' Sometimes though, 'the dream' conflicts with reality. Such is the situation I find myself in today. It's 7:45 PM here in Jerusalem. I am sitting in my apartment listening to the Magnolia Soundtrack trying to make sense of what happened in the past 29 hours.
29 hours ago I had just returned home from Ulpan and a walk through Machene Yehuda. I got home and started doing my Ulpan homework when I heard a siren outside. I don't even know if it was a police car or an ambulance, but I got a horrible feeling in my stomach. I ran to the living room and turned on Fox News Channel and saw what the rest of the world was already watching. The destruction and carnage which came from a singular act of hatred and violence directed towards an innocent University cafeteria. I was glued to the TV for the good part of the next couple hours. In the back of my mind it occurred to me that my roommate Ben had a test at the Ulpan he was taking at Hebrew Univ. that morning. I decided to call his cell and find out if he was safe, but it went straight to voicemail and I figured he was fine. Another couple hours went by and the realization that Ben should have been home by now was becoming more and more apparent. But still, I didn't think he was actually hurt. As the hours of the day were rolling by, and with the knowledge that Ben had a 9:00 AM plane flight to New York this morning, I was starting to really wonder where the hell Ben was. Each call to his cell phone that went straight to voicemail made me more and more nervous. Maybe he was actually hurt; maybe he was lying in a hospital somewhere, with no one he knows around him. At about 8:00 I decided to start making calls to the various hospitals around Jerusalem. By 8:30 I was frustrated, I'd called each one 10 times and hadn't talked to a single person. Each call went from a computerized answering machine to voicemail. It seems that the hospitals were being swamped with calls. I decided to relax and not think about Ben, I still couldn't believe that anything bad had actually happened to him. My tranquility was short lived, no sooner did I switch the channel from FNC to some American comedy then the doorbell rang. Standing in front of me was Police Office asking if I was Ben. I shook my head no and told him in my best Hebrew that I had no idea where Ben was. I tried to explain that he was at Hebrew Univ. today and hadn't come home. The Police Officer just nodded his head slowly and explained that he was sent to our apartment to get some fingerprint samples from Ben's room. My heart dropped into my stomach. Dropping the pretext that I spoke Hebrew, I started asking him every question I could think of, but the Police Officer didn't speak much English, and didn't really know any of the information I wanted. He just kept trying to calm me down with the nod of his head. He didn't understand a word I was saying, yet he knew what I was asking him. In Hebrew he told me that I shouldn't worry yet, that he still might be fine. I understood him, but didn't believe him. Things started happening pretty quickly, I called my friend JJ and had him come over. Together we started calling each hospital again and again till we got through. One by one each hospital told us the same thing, no one with his name was there. After that, the phone started ringing. The American embassy, the Israeli embassy, the Pardes (the school he was enrolled in during the year), the Hebrew U security, newspaper reporters, my parents, my sister, friends, relative, everyone was calling. The news spread like wild fire, my roommate Ben Blutstein was missing. That was the catch phrase we used, Ben just hadn't come home from school yet. I refused to give up hope, Ben was not only still alive, but fine. As the night progressed hope was harder to find. I knew Ben wasn't packed for his morning flight, I knew if he didn't come home at all, than something was wrong. By 11 the phone stopped ringing and the real worrying started. The mood in my apartment changed from one of hope and worry to one of dread for that phone call from the Police. As midnight came and went, it was almost impossible to think he was going to be all right. The painful realization I didn't want to think of was no more a figment of my imagination; it looked like it would be the reality. At 2:00, my apartment was still awake, a couple friends decided to stay with me for the night. We were still waiting for that call, watching South Park. At 2:00 my third roommate called from Australia where he is teaching for the summer, he got a call from the Pardes, they told him the news. We went to sleep soon after that, without even a glimmer of hope left. Sleep was hard to come by, but I managed a couple hours, waking up at 8:30. I jumped online almost the second I woke up, I needed to see if anything had crossed the AP wires. Within a minute of signing on, my friend Sammy IMed me. He is from Harrisburg, PA, where Ben is from and confirmed what I already knew, Ben was identified a couple hours earlier. The comfort of the finalization surprised me. The night of wondering and hoping turned into a morning of mourning. A weird relaxation came over me, I was glad to finally know where he was. A new hope came through me, one in which I was glad he was in his final resting place. I was able to go back to sleep for a couple more hours. When I woke up again a couple hours later we watched more FNC and my friends had to leave. Thankfully I was only alone for under and hour, my friend Shira came over and spent the day with me. The comfort of being around other people was more reassuring than I would ever have imagined. We wasted the day away doing mundane things. It was more comforting than I could ever imagine. We walked into town, and helped me conquer my fear of leaving my apartment. I dropped her off two hours ago and headed home. Home, alone, for the first time since I first heard the news. Its weird, but at the same time, its empowering. Every time I walk by Ben's closed door I think of him. Every time I see his book in the bathroom or his food in the refrigerator I think of him. Sometimes ghosts can be comforting instead of scary.
Its now almost 9:00. 30 hours have gone by, and my life is forever
changed. Be safe, and don't let this prevent you from coming over
here. Eli
An Alumni Reaction by Nigel Savage, '94-'95
David,
I'm obviously shocked and horrified at what has happened. I'm conscious
that the tradition recognizes ties of kinship, and that shiva and
mourning
reflects the extent to which for a parent or sibling or spouse the
loss of
a son or sister or partner is shattering in a way that it is not to those
less close.
But, separately from that, we live nowadays in broader communities
of
connexion also. I just wrote a letter of condolence to Marla's parents,
but I realized, having mailed it, that I wanted to write something to
Pardesniks in Israel at the moment - the faculty and the students, especially
the
students in the Educators' Program.
I don't have anything intelligent or profound to say. But I simply
wanted
to say that there are a lot of people not currently in Jerusalem,
me
amongst them, who are simply so shocked and appalled and upset at these
deaths.
Like Sbarro in the center of town, like Moment cafe, that student cafeteria
is
one I and many of us have spent lots of time in. I really cannot
find the
words to express how my heart goes out to everyone - mourning the
murder
of people young and open and idealistic, shocked at what has happened,
scared
of what tomorrow might bring.
I didn't really know Marla but we sedered with her at the Zions this
year
in Talpiot. I phoned them yesterday, and was aware that Marla was
missing,
that people were phoning her cellphone, frantic to find out if she
was ok.
We looked online this morning and saw her name, and Ben's, among
the dead.
I send - for what it is worth - my love and best wishes and condolences
to
everyone at Pardes, to everyone who knew them.
The seder we were at was led by Tanya and Mishael Zion, Noam and
Marcella's early 20-something kids. We didn't find out about the bomb
in Netanya till
the next day, and it wasn't till yontef went out that we discovered
that,
in fact, one of the guests had had a pager, had seen the news, and told
Tanya
and Mish - very early on - and Tanya and Mish went ahead and led
this
whole huge amazing joyous seder without in any way letting people know
what had
happened. So my memory of Marla is of her singing, performing a skit
with
minor props, participating fully in a vibrant and beautiful seder,
against
the backdrop of - to us, at that time - unknown tragedy. Afterwards
- at
2am - we popped in on Marc & Jill Baker's seder, also still going
full-throttle, also unaware of what had happened.
David, I really don't know why I'm writing this. I suppose it's about
connection in both directions - I want everyone to know at Pardes
that
there are people here who care about the pain you are all experiencing,
and,
perhaps in the opposite sense, for you to know that, though we're
here in
safety and privilege, we too in some small way are wounded when something
like this happens.
As I write, I understand that Danny is flying over with the bodies.
I'm
sure there will be a memorial service in New York next week. Though
right
now it sounds trite and almost meaningless, I pray - sincerely,
seriously - that we respond to these deaths in the only way that I think
we properly
should, by binding closer than before to each other, by learning
what we
can learn, teaching what we can teach, striving always to do our best
and to
think well of others.
Yours sincerely,
Nigel